Composers
by Vegtam the Wanderer
Summary: A series of one shots featuring music/composers/musical events from around the globe! Open for any and all suggestions.
1. The Paris Premiere

So, this is the first in a series of one shots about music, musical events, and most of all, composers! If you have any ideas for what composer/music/musical event I should feature next, please drop a review with your suggestion.

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May 29th. 1913. Of all days to see a ballet premiere, France had to choose that that one. He thoroughly enjoyed Mr. Stravinsky's previous works, and thought perhaps this new one…What was it called? Rite of Spring? Yes, that seemed to be about right. In any event, he expected nothing less than pure perfection.

Oh, how wonderful the ballet was, thought France to himself. Happy, attractive, dancing men doing gleeful pirouettes, gorgeous music, and feel good endings. What's not to love?

He waltzed into the Théåtre des Champs-Élyssées with a large grin on his face. The pit was tuning, the audience was filled with nervous chatter. France thought he might have heard some crying from the bassoon section, though maybe he was hearing things. Principal bassoonists never cry!

France made his way to his seat, and settled down. In front of him was an extremely pretty man. What luck! This night was going to be better than he thought.

Tapping the man on the shoulder, France asked: "Are you a dancer, mon ami?"

The man whipped around, facing France. He was even more beautiful from the front. "No…," the man blushed, obviously finding France quite the catch, "I—"

The lights dimmed, silencing the audience. The man turned back around. It was such a pity he wasn't on stage, France thought. Then he could stare at him the entire show.

It started off with an eerie solo, one that sent shivers down France's back. What was that? An English horn? An oboe? Whatever may have been, it was certainly creepy.

As the music went on, and more instruments entered, the chords grew more dissonant, the choreography grew more disturbing, and the audience (including France) grew more and more restless. What was this debauchery? France had expected a pleasant ballet with a pleasant storyline and pleasant choreography. Instead, he got _this._ What a mess! What a disaster! What a pile of money wasted on these expensive tickets.

Finally, a young man, dressed in a fine coat and tie, stood up, angry. "You call this ballet? This is a disgrace!"

A woman, wearing fur and pearls, joined him in the protest. "I have never heard such an ugly noise in my life! Boo, I say!"

The rest of the audience joined in a chorus of boos. People across the audience started standing up. An aura of irritation filled the room. More people started voicing their complaints.

"Nijinsky needs to just quit right now."

"What do you think they were thinking?"

"Mr. Stravinsky will never be able to show his face in a concert hall after this, mark my words."

It continued to escalate, until someone shouted: "Let's kill the principle oboe!" France couldn't agree more. It all started with that bastard's solo in the beginning. He had to die.

France followed the crazed mob into the orchestra pit. They surrounded the oboe section, and brandished their cummerbunds, preparing to strangle the principle. The musicians in the pit screamed.

"Get out, you crazed fiends!" shouted the conductor over the great riot in the audience. He was promptly knocked by an aristocrat with a monocle.

The mob closed in, grabbing mister principle and breaking his oboe.

"That was a thousand dollar oboe. An antique!" he cried. That pathetic man, France thought. He should have quit before he played such an ugly solo.

"We're going to string you up," growled someone in the mob,"Then, we'll display your body on the street corner."

"What…what did I do?"

"You played that creepy solo at the beginning, mon ami," France said, anger boiling in his voice.

"That wasn't me! It was…it was the bassoon!" protested the oboist, his eyes wild with fear.

"Likely story," France scoffed, and the mob proceeded to beat him to a pulp.

Forty minutes and a hundred assaulted performers later, the police arrived. That night, France spent in an uncomfortable jail cell along with thirty-nine others, waiting for bail. The floor was cold and the room dank. Most of all, France was upset that the lovely, attractive man he met, the non-dancer, wasn't there to keep him warm that night.

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A/N: During the Paris premiere of Stravinsky's Right of Spring, there really was an actual riot. Nijinsky was the choreographer.

The solo at the beginning of the Rite of Spring is, in point of fact, a bassoon.


	2. Beatlemania

England ran to America, finding him battered and bloodied, crying. He grabbed the younger nation's hand, and pulled him in for an embrace. It broke England's heart, seeing America this way. He was always so cheerful, for the most part. And now, he was shaking like an earthquake, panting, afraid. So, England told him a story.

Remember when we got VIP tickets to the Beatles concert that one time? It was at some outdoor venue at my place, don't even remember what it was called.

Remember the car we took? It broke down along the way. You tried to fix the engine, but it was one of my cars, so it squirted oil all over you. Sorry I was never mechanically talented.

Remember how we danced like a couple of idiots? It rained the night before, mud coated our legs like fondue, but we didn't care. We giggled like mad, high off secondhand marijuana, gottalovethesixties, right? There was a haze of it, dangling over the field like smog.

Remember how we sang our favorite songs, way off key, but we were happy. Never forget those, the happy times. Even when they hurt you, keep on singing. Remember the happy times. You can face the sorrows.

Remember how we met everyone in the band? McCartney? Lennon? Harrison? Ringo? The grin you had practically consumed your face. You were bouncing like a small child high on sugar.

Goddamn it, America, remember the Beatlemania. Remember a time when all those families were together. Remember when their fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, uncles, aunts, cousins used to get together before one of their number died, a thousand screaming voices in a collapsing tower, a plane, a military base. They would sing. They would dance.

Sing a song with me, America. A Beatles song. I brought my guitar. Listen to the music. Bring yourself up. It's the last they'd expect. They hate you, they hate the west, they hate music. Sing with me. Don't be afraid.

So they sang, during the most improbable time, under the most improbable conditions. And America was stronger once more.


End file.
